Free Sunshine Picklelime by Pamela Ferguson Page B

“Be strong, PJ. Trust me, child. I know what it’s like when parents go through a rough patch. Work extra hard at school. Make your room into your den and pin up more of your lovely artwork, so you always have a little place where you feel good. Keep working with birds and animals. They’re great teachers.”
    “I know,” PJ said.
    As they carried their overflowing baskets of tomatoes into the kitchen and rinsed them in filtered rainwater, Mrs. Patel told PJ about the ways some animals could predict earthquakes or volcanic eruptions or other disasters.
    “When they had an earthquake in China, the streets were jumping with frogs and all the ponds suddenly emptied. Birds disappeared from the skies. Cows threw themselves against fences,” said Mrs. Patel. “PJ, make a note of
everything
you are learning now from animals. They make you more observant.”
    “My dad said my work with animals was just a fad,” PJ said.
    Mrs. Patel chuckled. “Child, don’t worry. Sometimes our parents don’t understand us! My father couldn’t understand why I collected seeds from pods and grew them on windowsills in different types of soil to see which grew faster in which soil, which light, or which warm spot. When I tried to grow roses in a new color by attaching a crimson rose to a yellow rose, he said botany was a waste of time for a girl.”
    PJ tried to imagine Mrs. Patel as a young girl. All the wonderfully abundant vines of bougainvillea she could see peeping through the kitchen window seemed different now. Mrs. Patel was more than just a good gardener. She had
lived
gardening for years! If Mrs. Patel could achieve her dreams in spite of a difficult father, so could she.
    “Come, child. Time I taught you how to compost!” said Mrs. Patel.
    They returned to the garden, carrying containers of tomato stalks, veggie peels from the night before, and a mountain of tea leaves. They tipped the containers into one of the tumbler compost bins by the back fence and tossed a layer of hedge clippings over the bits. After replacing the lid, PJ spun the tumbler bin around on its frame like a trapeze artist.
    PJ wrinkled her nose. “Mrs. Patel, p’yew!” she said. “This must stink in summer!”
    Mrs. Patel laughed. “It breaks down fast in summer, you wait and see. Now, look in the other bin.”
    PJ twisted the lid off the second tumbler and peeked inside. Freshly composted, loamy, rich-looking soil filled the bin almost to the rim.
    Mrs. Patel reached in for a handful, raised it to her nostrils, and said, “Hmmm.
Perfect
. This is how good compost should feel and smell, PJ. Open your hands.”
    PJ opened both hands but couldn’t quite match Mrs. Patel’s excitement, except she loved the feeling of the crumbly soil. “So, leaves and clippings and veggie peels all break down to this?” she asked.
    “Oh yes. With heat, of course, and a little moisture. When you cut your crop of hair again, you can add your curls to the mix. It breaks down well and keeps animals away. Now run and get the wheelbarrow, gloves, and spades, child. We’ll take some lovely compost across to your garden.”
    They wheeled the barrow of compost, potted herbs, and young tomato and jasmine plants from Mrs. Patel’s greenhouse, and a basket of cherry tomatoes, across the road to the Picklelimes’.
    “PJ, what’s going on with that veggie patch?” Mrs. Patel asked. She shook her head at a forlorn corner covered with straggly carrot and potato tops.
    “I think we collected the last of the carrots and potatoes weeks ago,” said PJ. Compared with the gardens of Mrs. Patel and Ruth, the Picklelimes’ garden seemed neglected. Their live oak and pecan trees weren’t as old, sprawly, and exciting as those in Ruth’s garden.
    “We’ll tackle the veggie patch another time,” said Mrs. Patel tactfully. “Let’s get a line of herbs organized in the troughs by the kitchen door first of all.”
    They cleaned debris and old leaves out of the troughs and filled